


We're only bodies and hands lost somewhere in time

by pinkasrenzo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Consensual Infidelity, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so so so sorry for this (no am not), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Paris is a nice place, References to Drugs, Sanity is not an option, can you eat it?, hint!Pansy/OC, hint!past!Pansy/Blaise Zabini, like seriously what is even a sane relationship, not really actually but better be sure, past!Drarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 08:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkasrenzo/pseuds/pinkasrenzo
Summary: He was eleven when a name weighed on his shoulder more than he could bear.He was twelve when he said for the first time out loud the wordlove, not really knowing what it meant.He was thirteen when he learned what it meant to desire and to want and to seek.He was fourteen when he learned what fear was.He was fifteen when he saw the world crumble through is fingers.He was sixteen when he didn’t know what beingsafemeant anymore.He was seventeen when he learned to live on his tiptoes.He’s twenty-two when he tries to get out of the mist that swallows him, not quite seeing an end to it.He’s twenty-three when he tries a bit more.He’s twenty-four when he starts dusting off memories and skins his knees on the wood and tries another bit more.He’s twenty-five when he wakes up every morning and he doesn’t know what he’s doing and he tries less.He’s twenty-six when the scars on his body are different and he can’t try anymore.He’s twenty-seven when he realises he’s been holding his breath until that moment and he doesn’t know what he’s doing and it doesn’t matter.





	We're only bodies and hands lost somewhere in time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: my first language is not English, I'm Italian so be kind please and thank you (if you want to read this in Italian just click on the link above ^^)
> 
> It took two years for this thing to be born (like an annoying baby that cries all the fucking time) and then after writing and rewriting it again and again, in just two days of pain and suffering here it is, done.  
> Anyway. I blame _someone_ that guilt-tripped me into this and the Sleeping Wolf and their songs and I don't regret that I don't regret it.

He was eleven when he first met Harry Potter, in the midst of old cauldrons and black shelves stacked with second-hand books. He was eleven when he first met Harry Potter and his dad looked at him with that sharp and cold look of his that meant he wanted him to know he had disappointed him. He was eleven  when he first met Harry Potter and found himself unconsciously stumbling upon him in his thoughts more often than he wanted and wants to admit.  
He was eleven  when, at dinner, his father kept telling him how important his name and his bloodline were, of his duty as a member of that family. He was eleven when a name weighed on his shoulders more than the heavy set of books he carried on his back after every lesson. He was eleven and carried a name too heavy for his skinny shoulders.  
He was eleven when Harry Potter turned out to be just one of the other kids, one of those a step, maybe two, a little under him. He was eleven when Harry Potter stopped being _the boy who lived_ and became _Potter_ , with the _t_ spat out with sarcasm and disdain, through gritted teeth and curled lips.  
He was eleven when he learned to hate, and envy a bit, that mass of uncombed red hair and those freckles that tasted like dirt and screamed _Weasley_ a kilometre away.  
He was eleven when he learned that a name is nothing in front of loyalty. He was eleven when he learned that loyalty is more than just an instrument to grip one’s life in one’s hands and manipulate them like a broken puppet.  
He was eleven when he learned what was that _Malfoy pride_ his mother complained so much about. He learned it when Harry, when _Potter_ , shoved away his hand with nothing more than a glance, and shut the doors of his friendship to his face. He learned it when professor McGonagall tried to hide the mocking grin that curved her lips at the sight of his flushed cheeks and disbelief.  
He was eleven when he learned what envy was, and what meant to be self-confident. He learned it in the same way he discovered what it meant having his pride and name trampled on. He learned that envy is hot and anger is cold, that frustration makes the skin tickle and the knuckles sting.  
He tasted his first revenge, subtle and indirect, when professor Snape presented himself in the classroom making his pitch-black dress twirl. He savoured that bittersweet taste when he saw Potter getting embarrassed trying to find an answer to questions he couldn’t answer.   
He also learned that vengeance isn’t always effective and consequences can’t always be avoided. He learned it when a fly supposed to end into a tower and in an infirmary ended with the youngest Quidditch player in a century.  
  
He was eleven when he learned what it meant to be humiliated and swore he wouldn’t have let anyone made him feel that way ever again.  
He was eleven when his father stood by his side for the first time. He looked at him surprised and at a loss for words, he listened to him speak slowly and with a steady voice about how he was in the right, and held his breath till his mother touched his arm lightly, bringing him back to reality and astonishment.  
Years later, looking at an old painting now scraped and full of dust, he thought that maybe it wasn’t much for him but for his name. He smiled at his father glazed eyes, in the dull blue of the old paint, and laughed silently surrounded in dust, before watching that painting disappear and leave a faint trace on the wall appear in its place. When he was eleven, he took a deep breath and let out the air almost a minute after in a shrill whistle.  
  
He was eleven when he realised that not always following the rules is right and legit. He learned that sometimes one had to let go, look away in silence and let some rule be forgotten along the way. He learned to look away and not to care, to make his own rules. He learned that not always hard work is repaid, that sometimes breaking the rules is of help and doesn’t imply consequences. He learned it when the green of the Great Hall turned to red and the silver turned to gold. He learned it when the stones of the pavement were shaken by the roaring of the students, while for the green and silver there was nothing but a muffled clapping.

 

* * *

 

He was twelve when he learned that fame and success don’t always belong to the worthy, and even _idiots_ , paraphrasing his father, can find themselves in luxury and in the company of the best of society with no merit for it.  
He learned it when the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor signed himself _Allock,_ and Goyle looked at him in confusion when he laughed thinking about it.  
He learned that vanity is futile and useless, is often mistaken for confidence if there’s enough foolishness, and earns unconcealed sighs from a whole classroom but an annoyed black fringe contemplating her red as blood nails.  
  
He was twelve when he first met Pansy Parkinson and, when she laughed, his heart didn’t skip a beat.  
He was twelve when he kissed a girl for the first time, in the darkness of the Astronomy Tower, and felt the softness of an immature breast underneath his trembling fingers.   
He was twelve when he was afraid of an unbuttoned shirt and eyelashes too long, and screamed at Crabbe, while he hid beneath the blankets, trying to stop the tears and that unfamiliar sensation that he wasn't ready to decipher yet.  
He was twelve when he said for the first time out loud the word _love_ without really knowing it meant. He said it thinking about a third-year guy of whom he didn’t even know the name, and Pansy smiled faintly at him, telling him it was _alright_ and that sometimes she thought about the blonde of Nadine’s hair and her lips on hers.  
He was twelve when he learned that some things are better left unsaid, even if it means to lie. He learned it when the students in the dorms said Pansy was his girlfriend and she didn’t prove them wrong and he didn’t even think about it twice, because it was convenient and _easy_ and, when they hid in the library, Pansy told him that Blaise had a _je ne sais quoi_ , and twisted her hair with her fingers, because she spoke French and saw Paris and Beauxbatons.  
  
He was twelve when he worried about Harry Potter and denied it even to himself. He saw him ungraciously fall to the ground, crushed in a weird angle between the dirt and his broomstick, rolling for few meters to  then end up spitting out the snitch he almost swallowed. He maybe would’ve wanted a bit more time to worry, because a broken arm is a broken arm and his hatred for Potter didn’t reach that point. He maybe could’ve worried for just a few seconds more and understand a little more a little earlier if he didn’t see Harry’s bones disappear at a wand’s touch and his arm turning to jelly.  
  
He was twelve when he learned that fear is a powerful and alluring weapon, but it’s best to be kept at a distance. He learned it when students begin to be found petrified around the school and the wall of the corridor became tinged with blood and death. He learned it when whispered secrets turned into suspects and evil eyes where before there were curious looks and innocent gossips. He learned it when he saw the blood dripping on the floor and felt his fingertips tingle at the word _heir_. He learned it when Pansy asked him if it was him, if he didn’t want it to be him, and Draco answered he would’ve liked it and while he said it, he found himself not actually wishing for it and a bit afraid, even if he didn't want to admit it.  
  
He was twelve when he raised his wand against Harry Potter for the first time and heard a hiss escape his lips. He felt his neck stinging and a metallic taste filling his mouth, making the blood in his veins run cold.  
He was twelve when he started to think that maybe his father was right about Dumbledore. He started to think about it when mumbled secrets filled the stair and dormitories, and Potter’s name echoed one time too much through the velvet of Slytherin’s Common Room.

 

* * *

 

He was thirteen when he hid his fear underneath his arrogance. He hid it when Dementors caused the windows of the Hogwarts Express to frost up, and he hid it when Potter flinched when he startled him disguising his sweater as a cloak. He hid it when his arm was bandaged up and he complained more than necessary just not to admit to himself that his mind was upside-down.  
He was thirteen when he learned to conceal his emotion and steel his face because being an open book lead to complications and complications lead to explanations and it’s not easy to explain what’s unknown. He learned it when Harry crashed to the ground from above the clouds and Pansy raised an eyebrow at him when she saw him leaning out the bleachers holding his breath.  
He was thirteen when Pansy and Blaise walked hand in hand, and he felt a bit more lonely when he saw them trying to escape everyone else’s looks. He was thirteen when he learned to find comfort in solitude and pleasure in the burning sensation of the whiskey running down his throat.  
  
He was thirteen when he first met Theodore Nott and learned what it meant to desire and to want and to seek.  
He was thirteen when he first met Theodore Nott and felt what it meant to have his teeth scratch against his cracked lips. Learned what it meant to wait, in that instant that becomes an era, and feel his heart jump and stop for a brief moment, in that split second that precedes the clashing of lips and teeth and breaths. Learned what it meant to feel the warmth of another body against his own in the coldness of the night. Learned what it meant to look for someone in a crowd, unconsciously and unknowingly, without giving it a thought until it’s too late. Learned what it meant to have slender and steady hands worshipping him, uncovering every fold and every corner and every edge of his being. Learned what it meant _to touch_ and _to yearn_ and _to know_. He learned it when he was thirteen and didn’t know what he was doing, but it felt right and that was enough.

 

* * *

 

He was fourteen when he discovered the charm of Scandinavia and was confident enough to conquer it if it wasn't for Theo laughing next to him.  
He was fourteen when Crabbe and Goyle stopped being his friends and became _just Crabbe and Goyle_. He had what Pansy jokingly called the _Silver Trio_ , a few years later and a few bottle of gin later, lying on the floor of his apartment in Lyon, with her skirt curling up to bare her cold legs every time she laughed. He had Blaise, Pansy, Theodore.  
He was fourteen when Theodore became _Theodore_. He saw him the evening of the Yule Ball, leaning against the doorpost, with that manner of his, elegant as a cat, and felt an _ah_ somewhere in between his head and his legs. He heard him laughing straightening his tie and his fingers were thin and fast and still burned against his ribs.  
He was fourteen when he caught himself worrying about Potter again, in spite of the anger. Theo noticed it and when asked, he didn’t deny it because he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t understand anymore.  
He knew it a bit when he saw Harry’s name being blown out by the Goblet of Fire and it wasn’t just anger that made his hands shake. Knew it a bit more when he saw the dragons in the arena and Harry came out of the tent with not even a branch to defend himself. Knew it another bit more when he saw Harry disappear underwater for what seemed like an eternity, and concealed his agitation under his scorn, and Theo’s eyes didn’t smile at him. Knew it when Harry and Cedric came out of the maze and Cedric’s body lying stiff and cold on the grass made his stomach twist, and Harry’s screams, fading in the shouting of the crowd, made his heart tighten. Knew it when Theo whispered softly at him _liar_ , while he kissed him and undid his tie, after he told him how adorable he was when drunk, all smiles and stumbling around, and asked him if he wasn’t thinking too much about Potter because he'd been talking about him all night long and was still talking about him, a breath away from his lips. He paused, Theo blowing on his teeth and a _no_ that pressed forcefully against his tongue.  
_Liar_.  
Just a whisper, he almost didn’t hear it. Warm against his skin.  
  
He was fourteen when he learned what fear was.  
He was fourteen when he learned what it meant to stand on the strongest side and to have confidence despite not being able to keep his hands still.  
He was fourteen when He-who-must-not-be-named was no longer a memory and his shadow crept above the wizarding world once again.

 

* * *

 

He was fifteen when his father took out the cloak and the Death Eater mask from the wardrobe again, and fear tainted his smile when at dinner he spoke proudly about the _Dark Lord_.  
He was fifteen when the Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons became tinged with pink, and Theo ran his fingers through his hair, and he laughed because Potter was out of the Quidditch tournament and for once since Potter came to Hogwarts, Slytherins could actually hope to win the House Cup.  
He was fifteen when on his chest shone the _I_ and the _S_ of the I _nquisitorial Squad_ and he felt a subtle pleasure in deducting points from Gryffindors without a real reason if not that of being able to. To feel at least a bit in control and less adrift.  
He was fifteen when his arrogance was burned away by an amorphous mass of curls and a moment of distraction. The scar that now makes him chuckle every time he looks at his hands it’s the memory of that moment. It should’ve vanished, a hex of no importance, but it stayed there, between his index and his middle, resting on his knuckles. White and thin.  
He was fifteen when he didn’t have the time to keep Potter in his thoughts for too long.  
  
He was fifteen when he saw the world crumble through his fingers.  
  
He was fifteen when his father got locked up in Azkaban and his mother cried herself to sleep.  
He was fifteen when the Dark Lord recommended him, with a voice as thin as a serpent’s hiss, to join his followers and didn’t really give him a choice.  
He was fifteen when the Dark Mark burned his skin and kept him awake at night. He said he was proud of it because that was what was expected of him. Wore it with pride, swallowing the burning feeling in his throat every time he caught a glimpse of the gaping jaw of the skull on his arm, staring at him, studying him. Theo held him tight at night and kissed his skin where the black melted into the blue of his veins, and with his eyes, he whispered to him that he was doing the right thing. Draco let himself be captured by the darkness of his eyes and his nightmares sink into them.  
  
He was fifteen when he had to grow up.  
  
He was fifteen when he started doubting his father and thinking that maybe that feeling of something wrong, _twisted_ , wasn’t so faint as he thought.   
He was fifteen when he couldn’t be weak, uncertain.  
He was fifteen when someone’s life depended on his choices.  
He was fifteen when the Dark Lord ordered him to kill.  
  
He was fifteen when he couldn’t be.

 

* * *

 

He was sixteen when his mother’s life depended on his choices. He didn’t care about his life; he thought about his mother, muffling her crying at night, trying to hide her tears from him; about his father, locked up in a cold and dark cell; about how the line between life and death was so thin and fragile, just a raised arm and a word away. He didn’t even have to say it out loud, a thought was enough, just spelling the letters one by one in his head was what it’d take. A thought and everything would’ve been _settled_.   
He was sixteen when he didn’t know what it meant to be _safe_ anymore. He laughed with his friends on the train, showing off the black lines that stained his skin and boasting about the Dark Lord acknowledging him as _loyal_ and _with potential_. He was proud. And afraid. He was afraid like he never was. He was afraid and stirred his lips in a smile he hoped was convincing enough when Pansy asked him if it hurt, receiving the Mark, and he said _not even one bit._    
He was sixteen when somewhere between the mountains and the lake, his reflection in the glass showed him a pale and tired face, dark and deep shadows under his eyes. He was sixteen when he didn’t remember anymore when was the last time he slept for an entire night.  
He was sixteen when he _despised_ Harry Potter. He was sixteen when he made him fall violently on the floor of the Hogwarts Express, still as a stone, and in his voice echoed hatred, disdain, anger, frustration and sadness when he spat on his face _that’s for my father_ , breaking his nose while he looked him in the eyes.  
  
He was sixteen when he was scared of killing. He wasn’t scared of saying out loud those six syllables, not of Dumbledore and his power, not of being found out, not of the consequences.  
He was sixteen and was scared of killing and _finding pleasure in it._  
He was scared of crossing the line that separated him from that metal mask his father kept hidden in his wardrobe. He accepted the Mark to protect his mother, to fool himself into being able to protect her for a while longer. He accepted because he didn’t have a choice. He accepted with a lump in his throat and hands he couldn’t stop from shaking since weeks. He accepted with fear hunting him at nighttime and stealing his breath in daylight.  
Years later, he told himself it wasn’t his fault, repeating it a dozen times and once more, as his mother did and so did Pansy, at the other side of the phone. He tried to convince himself it was right, he didn’t have a choice, he couldn’t do otherwise. _He was only sixteen._  
When he cursed the necklace that reached the wrong person, he felt the Dark Lord’s wand caressing his back and a cold shiver running down his spine and through his bones. He ran away, trying to escape from failure and terror.  
When he poisoned a bottle of cider and it reached the wrong person again, he tore his favourite shirt in half and Pansy looked at him concerned.   
  
He was sixteen when the Dark Mark burned his skin like an open wound, tormenting him every moment, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He felt it when he wrote and the sleeve got caught in the edge of his desk. Felt it when he slept and couldn’t dream. Felt it when Pansy pleaded him _talk to me, Draco_ and her voice broke on the _o_. Felt it when he told Blaise _I’m fine_ trying more to convince himself than his friend. Felt it when Theo looked at him from behind the pillow and said to him he looked tired, _you could use some sleep_. Felt it when he got angry because when was the last time he tried to sleep and actually slept and _fuck off Nott_. Felt it when Theo looked at him, lied on his side and turned his back to him and didn’t speak. Felt it when that simple _I’m sorry_ and _don’t leave me_ got stuck in his throat and silence was a wall between him and those eyes as black as the night sky that banished his nightmares.   
  
When the apple in the Vanishing Cabinet had the mark of a bite that wasn’t there until a few minute before, the grip around his neck loosened and his lungs filled with air for a brief moment. When the bird that was just then trembling and staring at him with fear in his eyes, so little in the palm of his hand, warm and _alive_ , now lied lifeless at the back of the Vanishing Cabinet, Draco felt he took a step back from the metal of the masks and the black of the cloaks. He stared at it for a while, gently caressing its feathers with the back of his finger, feeling cold and stiffens against his knuckles. It was cold and still, its glassy eyes staring at him and piercing his soul, forcing him to shut his eyes tight.  
  
He was sixteen when Snape tried giving him a choice that wasn’t truly his. He was sixteen when he was alone and powerless and poured his rage against the white marble of the bathroom’s walls.  
He was sixteen when he cried and didn’t try to stop the tears, letting them soak his shirt and leave faint stains on the sink. He was sixteen when he raised his wand against Harry Potter for the second time. Because he wasn’t thinking, because it was _Potter_ , because the tears still marked his face and because he saw his hand run to his wand before he saw his face.  
He was sixteen when a single word sent him crashing into a pillar, making the painful _crack_ of his broken ribs echo through his mind. He was sixteen when a single word shouted with rage made him collapse on the floor without any strength left, deprived of the warmth of life and darkening the world surrounding him. He was sixteen when he observed himself writhing and twitching from the spasms on the bathroom floor, staining the titles of dark and thick red, as if it wasn’t his own body. The pain burned his bones and made the blood in his veins run cold, nagging and persistent. He watched himself and felt he was already somewhere else, far away. He was sixteen when he knew he was just one breath away from darkness and thought it wouldn’t have been so bad, maybe it would’ve been easy, just to stretch out his hand and let the sleep and the cold, embracing him like a thin and pungent veil, take him away. He was sixteen when he thought how simple it would’ve been _just to let himself go_ , close his eyes, abandon himself to the cold, to the pain that slowly faded away and the burning that was now a low tingling at the back of his neck. He was sixteen when the last thing he saw, before the darkness, was the green of Harry’s eyes worriedly searching his face, and his lips moving to form words he couldn’t hear. He was sixteen when he thought death was oddly calm and quiet and _let me go_ and smiled and his body didn’t respond him.  
  
He was sixteen when the lights of the infirmary made his head throb, and Theo pretended he couldn’t see the tears slowly streaming down his neck, talked about Anna Karenina and how muggle literature was fascinating. Draco cried in silence and Theo sat beside him flipping through Tolstoj, pretending he didn’t see the tears on his face.  
  
He was sixteen when he disarmed Dumbledore and didn’t have the time to notice how easy it had been.  
He was sixteen when anger pricked his eyes because it wasn’t true that there was another way, he didn’t have a choice and Dumbledore was so calm and peaceful standing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, while he was shaking and the wand was almost falling out of his hands.   
He was sixteen when those two words couldn’t get past his lips and Snape whispered them in his place.  
He was sixteen when he saw a man fall to his death.  
He was sixteen when his eyes met Harry’s, hid under the stairs, and he couldn’t even feel a whit of fear, he was just _empty_.  
He was sixteen when he didn’t have fear and he didn’t have tears, his hands didn’t shake anymore and the night was dark and quiet.  
He was sixteen when he learned what emptiness was.

 

* * *

 

He was seventeen when he became a Death Eater.  
He was seventeen when Dumbledore was dead and Snape was the headmaster of a school swarming with black cloaks and faces disfigured by scars and hatred.  
He was seventeen when his father came back home and there wasn’t a trace left of the man he used to be. His mother looked at him gripping the hem of his dress till her knuckles turned white, filled the silence with nervous and useless chatter, saying everything and nothing. His father didn’t look him in the eyes, and his neck hurt when he raised his head.  
He was seventeen when he learned to live on his tiptoes. He was seventeen when he started doubting and wondering. He started questioning whether it was right, if he could have done otherwise, if it wasn’t his fault, if he didn’t have another way and chosen to ignore it. Pansy told him he didn’t have a choice and Draco believed her because it was the only thing that still kept together the pieces of his conscience.   
He was seventeen when he stopped being happy and started surviving, dragging himself from day to day, not knowing how the world worked anymore.  
He was seventeen when he saw the war. He saw the war and the terror, and knew the luck of having a name instead of another.   
He was seventeen when Harry Potter stopped being just an inconvenience and became that _something_ that let him hope and not give up when his mother hurriedly hid her embroidered napkin his father gave her years before, and sniffled smiling at him only with her mouth. He made him hope that maybe not all was lost and what until then he thought was right, was wrong, because how could that _emptiness_ weighing down on his heart and having him on edge every moment be right.  
  
He was seventeen when he last saw Theodore Nott.  
They yelled when he left. They shouted and said _things_. If he thinks about it now, he’d like to bang his head into the wall until he’s numb. He’d want to erase the memory of those screams and words spat out with rage by the both of them.  
_I will never be enough for you, isn’t it so?_ he asked him, clenching his jaw. He blurted out a strangled _no!_ and should’ve reassured him more, told him it wasn’t true, that he was too much for him, he didn’t deserve him. But he didn’t say anything and just stood there staring at Theo’s back walking away, an arm extended towards him and his feet stuck to the floor.  
  
He was seventeen when he saw Luna Lovegood getting thrown into the dungeons of Malfoy Manor and smiling at him when she passed in front of him, while he couldn’t get himself to look her in the eyes. He stared at the darkness swallowing the stairs for he doesn’t even know how long after the blonde of her hair disappeared behind the heavy door of the dungeons.  
He was seventeen when he said _it’s not him_ with a trembling voice, trying to show a confidence he didn't have and knowing he was lying, because at his feet was the only person that still kept together the crumbling pieces of his hope. He said those three words and averted his eyes from Harry’s wounded face and eyes that pierced through his soul.  
He was seventeen when he found himself being grateful to Hermione Granger for the first time. If it weren’t for her, he would’ve had to hand over the only hope he had left to the Dark Lord.  
He was seventeen when he saw more death than he could bear.  
He was seventeen when Hermione’s screams filled his head and he couldn’t shut them out no matter how hard his hands pressed on his ears. He felt her pain shaking him to the bones, tearing him apart with her agonising and excruciating screams. He felt Hermione’s pain shattering his mind and stinging even when her crying was nothing more than a muffled whisper and silence filled the air.   
He cried quietly, his head in his hands, asking _why_.  
  
He was seventeen when he almost threw away the last hope he had, trying to save his life.  
He was seventeen when he heard Crabbe’s voice piercing through his ears and saw the fire swallowing everything, leaving behind only destruction, and it was _cold_. He was seventeen when he felt someone tugging at his shirt and pulling him up on a broomstick, incapable of averting his eyes from Crabbe’s body writhing in the flames. His screams echoed through his mind and tears blurred his sight when he gripped the fabric of Potter’s sweater with his fingers, and clung onto the warmth of his back as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.  
  
He was seventeen when he saw Harry’s lifeless body a few meters from him and felt his world cracking somewhere, his hopes shattering like broken glass. Neville’s words filled his mind and sounded empty, insignificant and useless.  
_He’s still in our hearts, he still lives. In us._  
He would’ve wanted to take him by his neck and shake him, shout in his face that it was over, they’d lost.  
_Voldemort had won._  
  
He was seventeen when his face was covered in dirt, dust and blood, and his mother tentatively extended her hand out to him, from the other side of the battlefield.   
He was seventeen when he hesitated to take that hand, paused and looked at Harry lying stiff and pale and felt _something_ , deep in his heart, tightening and tugging in the wrong way.  
He was seventeen when Harry Potter miraculously came back to life and bolted through the debris, dragging the Dark Lord with him and disappearing over a cliff.  
  
He was seventeen when he watched Harry appear from the wreckage, barely standing on his feet, covered in ashes and blood.  
He was seventeen when he saw two green eyes smiling tiredly at him, and let out the breath he didn’t know he'd been holding until that moment.  
He was seventeen when he cried and, for the first time, his heart felt light. 

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty-two and wondered if he did the right thing so many times. He thinks back on his years at Hogwarts, about how things could’ve been different, even just a little bit, if he understood just a moment earlier what he refused to understand.   
He’s twenty-two and his mother screams, at seven in the morning, because she found his father’s body hanging lifeless from the living room’s ceiling, a knot around his neck and the chandelier threatening to fall on him.  
She moved to France a week later, following Pansy’s advice, and Draco now finds himself all alone in the vastness of Malfoy Manor and doesn’t know what to do with his life.  
He’s twenty-two and he’s _broken_.  
He has nightmares every night, hears the thundering roars of the walls come tumbling down, the muffled thump of the lifeless bodies falling to the ground, the whistling of the spells relentlessly flying through the battlefield, the grumbling of lightning and thunders that clouded the sky the day of the Battle of Hogwarts.  
He starts going to muggle pubs because nobody knows who he is and no one asks about the black lines colouring his arm. He drowns his every sensation in a glass of whiskey after another. He wakes up in the morning in a house he doesn’t know, on the wrong side of a bed that isn’t his, next to the warmth of a body he doesn’t remember having touched. He leaves without a word, blending in the cold and the shadows of a London that never belonged to him, and starts again this routine he’s tangled up in without wishing for it,  in which he slipped because it was easier. He lets himself get dragged deep down in the numbness by the fluttering reality that is calm and slow, induced by alcohol and smoke. He gave away the furniture, one by one, till he found himself sleeping, or at least trying to, in a cold and empty house, in which the steps echo sharply through the walls and the only warmth is that of his own flesh.  
_You can’t go on like this, Draco._  
Pansy says to him every time, from behind her cup of sugarless tea, holding it with both her hands to warm up after the rain in March. She says that to him and doesn’t wait for an answer, knowing there won't be one. She speaks with herself every time she comes visiting him. She tells him about Blaise and how _it’s ok, really_ that it’s over because they weren’t meant to be together anyway, they were too different and that was fine. She’s not really convinced when she smiles nervously, lowering her eyes to the tiny plate stained with tea. She’s a bit more convinced when she tells him about France, after being gone for a month. She tells him about the boulevards, the Seine, Paris and all the little towns of which Draco will never remember the name and that she went to with her _Amelié_. She always talks about her. Draco asks her how does she know she’s the one, how does it feel to have someone you know you want to spend the rest of your life with. _I don’t know, it’s— I just know_ , she answers, laughing softly. Draco smiles at her and looks away.  
  
He’s twenty-two and trying to get out of the mist that swallows him and not really managing to.  
He wakes up and next to him there’s a messy mop of hair of the wrong shade of black, ruffled in the wrong way. He doesn’t remember what happened after the first streetlamp lit up down the street. He watches the guy next to him sleeping peacefully for a while, the trace of his nails still red on his back. When he gently drags his finger on them, he feels a shiver under his fingertips, and the guy turns, showing him a face too young and calm, so covered in freckles they almost hide the line of his lips. He watches him smiling in his sleep, and Draco doesn’t know when was the last time he smiled and meant it.  
He takes a sharp and short breath before getting up and gathering up his clothes, losing himself in the cold of January and leaving footprints in the snow.

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty-three when he meets Harry Potter after six years.  
His hair is smoothed back and longer than he remembered and when he opens his eyes and stares into his the green of his irises is disarming.   
Draco doesn’t care what Harry’s doing in a place like that. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing there, in a dark and filthy alley on the back of a gay club, in which _club_ is just a word on its sign.  
The music still pumps in his ears and the sweat of the moving bodies still clings to his skin. Maybe it’s because he drank too much and he’s not thinking and he doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s because on that face there are the same marks that run across his. Maybe it’s because that face is the only thing that kept him together during the last years before the war and a little bit after, preventing him from crumbling. Maybe it’s because that’s what he needs, _to crumble_. He needs to crumble to put the pieces back together, from the beginning, filling the voids he left behind.  
Maybe it’s just because _whatever_.  
And it’s desperate, sharp and rough. It’s a clashing of teeth and bones, and the wall is cold and hard underneath his hands. It’s fast and unexpected and no one says a word. Draco’s fingers dig into Harry’s shoulders when his teeth scrape against his throat and bones, sticking out of the hem of the shirt he’s wearing, too thin to shelter him from the cold. It’s violent and frantic and Harry flinches against him when his hands slide harshly under the fabric of his jeans, moving and not caring if it hurts him, in need to touch and  craving the contact of his flesh in a way that’s almost primitive. Maybe they’re just trying to hurt each other, clinging to each other’s wounds, digging themselves a tiny place between the scars.  
When he backs away, out of breath and fingers still sticky, he doesn’t look him in the eyes and Harry doesn’t stop him when he leaves. No one says a word.  
  
It’s a month till he meets him again. Another alley and another night. It’s less cold and the music has left him already.   
The words escaping Harry’s lips are breathless and tinged with desire, and they make him shiver when he whispers in his ear.  
Harry’s body on his is heavy, warm and _alive_. Draco clings to that warmth that burns his skin and digs his fingers into his flesh, leaving red marks on his back and arms. Harry’s hands press hard against his hips, leaving handprints and digging through his scars.  
He finds himself breathing in smoke and metal in Harry’s hair, it reminds him of the war and he screams when the white blinds his sight and Harry fiercely thrusts in him, letting his arms give up and biting on his shoulder to suffocate a moan.  
  
He wakes up next to a body with scars he recognises and could name one by one. They’re the same scars he sees every morning when he looks in the mirror and sees the reflection of the shadow of himself smiling tiredly from the glass. He traces them slowly with his fingers, watching Harry’s chest calmly rising and falling.   
_Stay_ , he asks him, opening his eyes one at a time.  
Draco stirs his lips in a crooked smile and lets Harry’s fingers untangle the knots in his hair.

 

* * *

He’s twenty-four when Harry asks him about the scars running across his chest. He doesn’t need to explain when he looks at him and clenches his jaw. Harry lowers his gaze and murmurs an _I’m sorry_ Draco didn’t know he needed.  
He’s twenty-four when Harry fills the empty rooms of Malfoy Manor and the steps echo a little less between the walls. There’s a bed big enough for two, a table that Draco moves slightly to the left because it reminds him too much of the old cherrywood table in the living room, and the curtains begin to be left open during the day, letting the light and the soft warmth of the first days of spring pass through.  
There’s a cat and Draco doesn’t know how he ended up waking up every day with a tail tickling his nose. It doesn’t have a name and it’s not really his, it comes and goes, caring to wake him up every night at three o’clock to nestle between his and Harry’s pillow.  
He’s twenty-four when his hands start getting red from the detergent on tap, because _it’s good for the environment, Draco. It’s important_ , Pansy told him, her voice sounding a bit nasal through the receiver and a half-english half-french accent slipping through her _r_.  
He’s twenty-four when he starts dusting off memories and skins his knees on the old wooden boards of the attic. He doesn’t know why he opens that door that for many years he was scared to look at. Maybe it’s because the manor is empty and quiet, without Harry, filled with a soft calmness that tightens around his chest. Maybe it’s because the cat, that he named _Bob Lee Swagger_ after watching a stupid tv show and laughing for an hour, thought it was a good idea to play with the knob till it made the door creak on its hinges. Maybe it’s because Harry comes home in the morning and reeks of battle and smoke and reminds him of the war and it stings on his neck. He understands when he tells him that’s what he needs, even if it hurts. He understands when he tells him that the only way to turn off the sound of the battlefield is throwing himself in the noise and the smoke, letting pain erase pain. He understands, and maybe it’s even because of that that he opens the attic door and blows on old boxes, raising up dust and remembering what he maybe wasn’t ready to remember yet.  
It becomes a constant need, like a mantra, cleaning and drifting into sleep with reddened hands that smell like detergent and knees that still throb and ache. Drowning the memories in the weariness. Pansy laughs when she comes visiting him, telling him he’s on his way to becoming the perfect stay-at-home wife, and Draco lets her, averting his gaze from the happiness she found with Amelié and wondering whether what he has with Harry is the same and if he’s not just hurting himself again, clinging to a warmth that burns his skin and shakes his bones.

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty-five when he’s not surprised to wake up with a mass of black curls next to him and a cat hitting his nose with its tail.  
He’s twenty-five when he wakes up every morning next to Harry Potter and doesn’t know what he’s doing.  
They don’t talk much, since this _thing_ he’s still trying to figure out began. It’s not a relationship, nor a friendship. They were never friends, probably never will be lovers, let alone a couple. When Pansy asks him how’s it going between the two of them, he says it’s _normal_ , and she looks at him in amusement and a bit thoughtful and caresses the back of his hand with her thin fingers.   
They share an apartment, Draco cooks, cleans every corner of the house, and opening the door to the attic hurts every time a little less, just a tiny bit. They share an apartment and don’t talk too much. It’s not a relationship, it’s some kind of unspoken agreement that remains suspended in the air. An unwritten agreement in which none of them says nothing because it’d be wrong and strained, and the war is the only thing they talk about, without ever pronouncing the _w_ nor the following letters. They understand each other, remembering together what on their own would hurt too much, and they’re often just a word away from the abyss, and Draco throws away the key of the liquor cabinet. It’s a compromise and it still works for a while more.  
They get to know each other at night, through their bodies and hands, letting teeth and hips speak for them, letting the panting of a frantic and frenetic desire be the only thing breaking the silence  
They kiss, not much.  
It’s teeth clashing and bites that leave faint scars, and sometimes Draco feels blood under his tongue, some other times the air between their bodies is cold and he digs through the bones with his fingers, trying to fill the void that still surrounds him. They hurt each other, trying to suffocate the noise with the tingling sensation of their teeth against their skin.   
They fight, not really. It’s bullshit, they both know it and they both pretend not to.  
They try to fix each other, not knowing how. They try to fill each other’s voids and close each other’s scars at least for another while.   
They pretend to forget waking up screaming in the middle of the night because the nightmares are back and the silence of the dark is thick and violent. They pretend to forget the shaking in each other’s arms, because admitting it would mean recognising the pain and recognising the pain would mean remembering and remembering hurts, and it’s still too soon to say _war_ and talk about it without having to pretend they’re not. It’s for that reason that Harry starts wearing himself out on the night shift. Sleeping is easier during the day, the noise hides the memories and the light tinges the darkness behind his closed eyelids of a vermilion red, too strong to remind him of blood and ashes. It’s for that reason that Draco starts cleaning every day. He doesn’t sleep much, tossing and turning in bed every night, seeking the warmth of a body that’s not there, tangling himself in the covers and screaming in the darkness because he just saw a Ravenclaw die before his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty-six when Harry’s scars are not his scars.  
He’s twenty-six when pain comes back to burn his bones and sting his eyes.  
He’s twenty-six when he remembers too much and breaks the glass of the liquor cabinet, cursing himself for throwing away the key. He opens the bottle of bourbon with shaking hands and blood running down his knuckles, staining his jeans with holes on his knees.  
He’s twenty-six when Harry wears himself out on the night shift and leaves him prey to his nightmares.  
He’s twenty-six when he loses himself into the music to cover the noise of the spells and the lifeless bodies again. He goes out at night, leaving Bob Lee to scratch the door behind him, with clothes too thin for the cold that numbs his hands. He loses himself in the led and the basses that vibrate through his bones, in the stinging smell of alcohol and sweat, in the rhythmic and incessant pumping of the blood in his veins and the warm torpor of smoke. He loses himself in the sea of bodies, letting hands he doesn’t know sink into his skin, lips of which he hasn’t seen the eyes blow in his mouth, and hips of which he doesn’t know the rhythm push into the forced warmth of his legs.  
He’s twenty-six when he wakes up and doesn’t remember who’s the guy next to him and in whose bed he’s in, and thinks that Harry’s probably coming home in that moment and can’t get himself to care.  
He’s twenty-six when he doesn’t shout back when Harry slams him into the wall, asking him through his teeth _who is him_. He doesn’t answer because not even he knows and doesn’t care to know nor does he know how many bodies went through his, and he doesn’t scream when Harry screams because he can't find the strength to let out his voice. He avoids his gaze and closes his eyes, letting the sensation of the hard and rough wall against his shoulder blades shut out the sound of Harry’s voice.  
It happens three times more before Harry stops screaming and just looks at him clenching his jaw.  
Neither of them tries to leave, they keep living in what slowly turns into another way to shut off the pain with other wounds on top of the ones that are still open. They hurt each other and let it be because it’s best than remembering the blood and the smoke, and the frantic sex obscure the senses and hides the emptiness.  
They talk less and less, never in daylight.  
They meet by chance, as if they were strangers living together under the same roof, in those brief moments when Harry comes home from his shift, and they look at each other with stinging eyes and shaking hands before Harry closes the bedroom door behind his back and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.  
They talk at night, with their hands and teeth. They talk leaving bruises and scratches on each other’s bodies and pulling at their hair when it’s too much and they need _slow_. They talk at night, and no one ever speaks.  
  
He’s twenty-six when the dust has almost completely covered the old chest of drawers that his mother loved looking at when the light hit it at three in the afternoon. His father smiles stiffly at him from behind the ornate frame, the glass dirty with fingerprints and time that slightly hides his mother face, sitting next to her husband, with a little five years old Draco in her arms. To take that picture, they told him with laughter in their voices, it took a good twenty minutes. They had to make the cherrywood table float in the air to have him look straight into the camera and smile.  
Draco doesn’t remember anything from that day. He remembers the table, in the years that followed. Remembers the countless dinners he spent sitting stiffly on one end, in one of those chairs that were comfortable not even in the aesthetic. His parents at the opposite end, sitting with their back straight and their arms close to their body, eating in silence. His father spoke every now and then, his mother nodded slowly, not really paying attention to him, and Draco lowered his eyes, mumbling from time to time a _yes, father_.  
Draco remembers him staring him down with that look of his he reserved for him and him alone, to intimidate him in silence, that look that pierced through his bones and made him shiver under his woollen sweater. If he were to saw him now, he’d laugh. He could hold that gaze without breaking a sweat, he could answer him with an even sharper and colder look.  
He doesn’t even know anymore when he learned to sharpen his eyes like that, when he learned to clench his jaw to sharpen its line and earn him that hidden shiver under his cold eyes. And he doesn’t even know when he stopped dusting the chest of drawers. Maybe it was a bit after he gave away the table, when his mother moved to France and he found himself being lonely in the immensity of the Manor, the steps that echoed through the corridors in spite of the thick carpets that covered the floors, and his voice that sounded like a gunshot when it wasn't louder than a whisper. Maybe it was when he started giving away pieces of furniture one after another because they reminded him too many things he wished to forget and still keep him awake at night. Maybe it was when Harry moved in with him, without asking or being asked, gradually and slowly, but not too much, and started filling the silence in the corridors and making his voice sound less violent and more human. Maybe it was when he began to wait not with anticipation but irritation, for the door to open to let Harry in, without really looking at each other nor greeting each other. Maybe it was when, on a Sunday morning, scrubbing furiously the cloth now full of holes over the remains of his life before the war, after a fight that wasn’t a fight with Harry, he found some old photographs and was surprised when he couldn’t remember when or who it was that took them. He was less surprised when he looked through them and realised that almost all the faces smiling on the paper lie now buried under the earth, some of them not even that, turned to ashes before they could even realise it. He smiles drily, losing himself in the memories and finding faces he thought he forgot. Faces that maybe he didn’t want to remember but didn’t know he needed to see again.

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty-seven when Theodore comes out of nowhere, his hair longer than he remembered and his shoulder wrapped in a sweatshirt Draco never thought he’d ever see him wearing.  
He’s twenty-seven when Theodore comes out of nowhere and Draco realises he’s been holding his breath until that moment.  
He’s twenty-seven when he spins and finds out the body against which he was grinding and the hands that circled his neck belong to a face he knows too well and clutches at his heart in a grip he hadn’t felt in too long. They stay still, looking at each other in between the led and the crowd of sweating bodies that bump and press them, their breath cut short and their hands shaking. It’s an instant, a whisper that escapes Theo’s lips, and the memories of Hogwarts, the fear, the pain, the war, the sound, the noises, his back walking away from him, overwhelm him and cut the ground from under his feet.  
It’s an instant, a faint touch of fingers and a static from his fingertips through the depts of his heart. And then it’s hands, fingers and hips. They meet and collide under the red and blue lights, they seek and find each other in the musky scent of sex and sweat. It’s hands and fingers and hips and Theo’s lips against his own, his neck, his chest, his hands on his hips and through his hair, tugging, gripping, pressing and digging through his ribs, leaving red handprints against the white of his skin. It’s electricity and cold and heat at the same time, bodies melting into one another and finding themselves once more, trying to rebuild a path once known as the only truth in a sea of uncertainty and destruction. It’s a desperate and frantic search for those angles and corners that fitted and fit like puzzle pieces, chasing after the memory of a soft happiness now helpless and broken.  
  
He’s twenty-seven when he wakes up and Theo smiles softly at him, running his slender fingers through his messy bed-hair, leaning down to touch his lips in a kiss that’s left lingering in the air.  
He’s twenty-seven when he hides his face in Theo’s back, clutching at his body as a man lost at sea clings to a piece of wood in the midst of a storm.  
  
_Don’t leave me._  
  
It’s nothing more than a whisper, it slips slow and broken on his tongue, bringing with it years of open wounds and scars that still sting underneath his skin. He doesn’t even realise he’s been crying, when Theo wipes his tears with the back of his hand and smiles, asking him if he’d like milk in his coffee.  
  
He’s twenty-seven when he watches Harry leave for the last time, and it hurts even if it’s right.  
He’s twenty-seven when he tries to stick the pieces back together, slowly, filling the voids and sewing the wounds left open by the war and the choices he wouldn't have wanted to make if only there _were_ a choice. He tries when he lets go of London and discovers how the French accent is annoying, just to change his mind a moment later when the letters roll softly on Theo’s tongue, while he scratches Bob Lee under his chin. Tries when he picks up a pen and starts writing, and is hard at first, but after the first line the words begin to flow and before he knows it it’s the middle of the night and Theo looks at him with sleep in his eyes, keeping himself up leaning against the doorpost and tells him that the bed is cold without him. Tries when he shows his mother the boxes he found in the attic of the Manor and she smiles behind the tears. Tries when he blows away the dust on the chest of drawers he brought along from London, incapable of throwing it out, and his father smiles at him less rigid from behind the frame, proud as he was _before_ , and his mother’s smile when she comes by tells him he did the right thing. He tries slowly, one step at a time, letting go one burdening memory with every step taken, feeling the weight on his shoulder getting lighter and his hands warmer and steadier.  
He’s twenty-seven when Theo’s scars are different than those running across his skin, but sting in the same places and pull at the same strings that circle his heart in a cold and sharp grip. They talk about the war and name it, remembering and thinking back on the choices that made them lose themselves in the world not to see faces that don’t exist anymore. They talk about the war and there’s no need to explain why they did what they did, this time. Because Theo is not Harry, because Theo _understands_ what was at stake, doesn’t see only black and white and fought the same battles and suffered the same defeats. Because Theo was on the wrong side even if he thought he wasn't and knew it too late when he was already in it up ti his neck and leaving meant dying or watching his loved ones die. Because they both saw their world and certainties falling apart, slipping through their fingers like dry sand, leaving them with nothing to cling to in order to get through an unknown world in which they were the _bad guys_ because of the choices they didn’t have when they were fifteen. They remember the years they spent at Hogwarts, when it was still _easy_ and how the other Slytherins whistled when Draco kissed Theo on the couch in the Common Room and they both ended up breathless. They remember how Pansy and Blaise revolved around each other, and smile thinking about her and Amelié in their white dresses, and wonder where Blaise is and if he’s happy and if he’ll ever show himself again. They remember Crabbe and Goyle and Draco tries not to think that maybe it’s his fault and that if only he hadn’t been so desperate, Crabbe would still be alive. They remember the Yule Ball, of how they were embarrassing at fourteen, and they dance barefoot with no music on the carpet in the living room, and Draco laughs because the seams tickle him and Theo promises him he’ll remember it. They kiss slowly, feeling the taste the other’s lips on their own and breathing each other in. They kiss in haste, biting and chasing each other, letting the _feeling_ and _touching_ prevail on the speaking, leaving only whispers cut by breaths to be heard. They kiss laughing, feeling the laughter vibrate in their chest and the warmth tingle on their fingertips. They kiss while talking, dirtying themselves with coffee in the winter and strawberries in the spring. They kiss without touching, letting the air filling the distance between them caress their skin. They build each other, helping themselves stand on their feet on a road to which they can’t see an end they’re in no rush to reach. They cling to each other at night, trying to let out the screams that turn into whispers and then silence. They fit in the wounds and the scars, letting the red turn to white and what once burned the bones and stung the fingers turn into a low tingling at the base of the neck. They breath each other in, building an unspoken _us_ that isn’t needed because it’s in the air and in the moving knowing every instant where the other is and in the pure synchronicity of lining the plates in the cupboard with no need to talk not to bump into each other in the cramped space of the kitchen. They stitch each other back together, filling the voids with memories they didn’t know they had and didn’t know they sought, keeping together the pieces of the past they don’t need to remember because it fills their sleep every night and it took years for it to hurt less and they still can’t let go, because they need to remember, for a little bit more, even if it’s tight around their chest and it cuts their breath short. They discover one another at night, with their lips and fingers, uncovering new creases and old scars, saying with their body what with words they can’t yet drag out from behind their teeth. They discover one another in daylight, with their eyes and the words that remain suspended in the air, looking for a normality that comes out little by little between the dirty dishes, the dust on the windowsill and Bob Lee scratching on the leather of the couch.  
  
He’s twenty-seven when he finds a piece of happiness again and feels life tugging and not hurting.  
He’s twenty-seven when he feels warm in January, and remembers New Year’s Eve and Theo that can’t open the bottle of champagne.  
He’s twenty-seven when he lets go a piece of himself and earns two more every day.  
He’s twenty-seven when his mother smiles in the evening when she comes by and cooks for them what she learned on Wednesday with Pansy.  
He’s twenty-seven when he doesn’t wonder anymore whether what he has with Theo is the same as what Pansy has with Amelié. He doesn’t care and he doesn’t want to know. And maybe it’s precisely because he doesn’t want that he _knows_.  
He’s twenty-seven when Theo turns towards him, with his eyes as black as the night sky capturing him and a smile that wishes to be a laugh, and asks him _why don’t we get married,_ barely holding back what becomes a shiver and then a muffled and happy laugh that shakes his shoulders and his whole body. They both laugh till their eyes are filled with tears and they have to hold their faces in their hands because it hurts. Draco doesn’t answers and he doesn’t need to, it’s a silent _yes_ and a _sooner or later_ and a _when we won’t be broken_ and a _normal_ that none of them tasted in a while and it’s soft on the skin.  
  


**END.**


End file.
